


Baker Street Diaries

by TwoWorldsChild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Big Brother Mycroft, Drabble, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Multi, One Shot, Tags May Change, Translation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-05-22 10:48:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6076500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwoWorldsChild/pseuds/TwoWorldsChild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The "Baker Street Diaries". Life in a (fictional) nutshell or in a (fragile) soap bubble. Most of the time every Chapter stand on its own. Publish I will, once a new idea has found its way onto the (virtual) paper. I write this first story in the end of Januar 2016. I try to translate the other ones in the moment...and english is not my native tongue...and I have no beta reader...just my knowledge, a dictionary and google translate. :)</p><p>Have fun, drink a cuppa, leave a note... :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The world's a stage

**Author's Note:**

> What if the world had just underestimated the good doctor? Just a short one-shot, Blogger John's Pov, post-Reichenbach.  
> PS: I try to translate my works, but I´m not a native speaker and I have no beta (only a dictionary and google), so please forgive me any mistakes. :)  
> 

 

* * *

 

_"It's just a magic trick, John"!_

_"Yeah and the world's a stage ..."_

_"And we are mere players!"_

 

 

**19th january**

**The biggest lie of all**

 

Sometimes I could not stand the talk of the people around me, at least from those who believed that Sherlock Holmes was really dead. Oh, you hopeless fools out there. Maybe he could deceive you all, well, actually he had done just that.

But Molly just cannot lie convincingly, at least not in the presence of our friends. And Mycroft ... there was such a saying that I had modified for me: Do you know a Holmes, you know them all. Sometimes it is really useful, that everyone underestimated peoples intellect. But just because I know that it's not true, I will play my role to perfection, give the grieving friend and just sit in the apartment and stare at the walls. Even Mrs. Hudson believe in this charade, and that wanted to say something. And the world is so blind to the obvious, Sherlock would have been thrilled.

Nobody, nobody can simply conjure up so much genius, like a rabbit out of the cylinder. Or identify potential serial-killer fractions of minutes. That was the worst theatrical performance of my life, and the world fell for it. You only want to see what you want to see. Because to worry about the real facts means yes, that one would have to strive. God forbid. And for the first time I see the world through your eyes, all the silly people around me and that holey spectacle that Moriarty put on the stage and everyone have fallen into this cheap trap. Mycroft has something indicated, and if I have it correctly interpreted, the Consulting Criminal has gone finally from us. However, something has driven you to this drastic step and the explanation, I would like to hear if you rose again from the dead. And in this, I put all my hope, that you come back ... back to your city, our home, back to your, our lives. And I wish now in this moment, nothing more than that I could be with you. I do not know where you are, what you do ... I have a guess, but from your charming little, treacherous brother comes not an ounce of information. Reminds me of an oyster, these days, only the place of pearl is probably more a muffin ... But never mind.

I count the days Sherlock Holmes, I'm counting on you. Do what you have to do and then come back. I will do everything that your name will be cleaned again, that Moriarty posthumously gets what he deserves, the title of the greatest liar of all time. And I'll help you, even so, to kick Mycroft a little bit in the ass for what he has done. Fuck the damn Hippocratic Oath. Soldier, remember?

And for a moment I could not help grinning. I sat entirely too much indoors, maybe I should call Greg, ask how it went. Moriarty had not only more than one life on his conscience, he would have ruined almost the career of said Detective Inspector. And therefore I was grateful for Mycroft's intervene, however he had done it. Yes, beer with Greg sounded good.

But first I had to delete this, it was still too early. Sherlock would determine when it was time. Time to return. To London. To 221B Baker Street. Consulting Detective and blogger. To his old, new life. Back to me.

 

**19´th january**

**The biggest li .........**

**... ...............................................**

**. ... ................................................**

**. ................ ... .................................................**

**................................**

**#blogpost deleted#**

 

~ End ~

 

 


	2. In a hail of bullets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of everything (SiP) ... in a short thought experiment, or rather flashbacks of John. And yes, it's a bit confusing ... but are flashbacks that not sometimes? The feeling of absolute confusion and stuck-in-a-cotton-cocoon? Until the world rotates again ...  
> PS: The River Styx represents the boundary between the world of the living and the realm of the dead, Hades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing and nobody from the lovely BBC, also not the songs/poems, just the story idea!  
> PS: I try really hard to translate this right, but I have no beta. Just my knowlegde of this beautiful language, a dictionary and google. Written in the end of January 2016. Have fun...drink a cuppa...maybe leave a note. :)

* * *

 

**_Happiness can be found even in the darkest times._ **

**_If someone only thinks to turn on the light._ **

 

 

Human life was so incredibly fragile, the smallest thing could finish it. You could drown in a vanishingly small amount of water, stumble upon narrow stairs and break your neck, could freeze ´cause of a wet and windy day and the simple disease that developed, ended perhaps fatally. If you pulled the fact into consideration how quickly life could be over, he sometimes doubted this whole concept. Had life even a deeper meaning? There were no rules, no one who ruled his fate... nobody but himself ...

Since yesterday his world was turned upside down, maybe it was all a figment of his imagination, a mirage, a wisp. And he stood for a while up here on Westminster Bridge, looking down at the river which reflected the lights of nightly London. For a moment there was the feeling of soft sand under his feet, relentlessly hot sun and the feeling of not survive this day. He could feel the burning pain in his shoulder and his leg, trying desperately to catch his breath and failed miserably. The world was unhinged and drifted inexorably sideways in the darkness, blurred the reality and melting like one of the clocks in Dali's paintings. Seconds transform to days, time ran backward and leaving behind nothing but broken shards. And probably this was not the Thames down there, perhaps not even London. Perhaps that was life after death, the underworld and this the River Styx, and he had long since set on the other side. Then that would be hell? But he had always said that hell (philosophically speaking, of course, since he in a life-after-death variety "hell" no longer believed) was Afghanistan. Hell was a storm of shells and bullets and the blood of his comrades and enemies, which seeped into the sand. He had always said that the battlefield was the real hell. And slowly his vision leveled off again and he realized where he really was.

John Watson was in heart and soul a soldier, had vowed to die for queen and country. But he was a doctor with the same dedication and so it was for him always like a slap in the face, if he could not prevent that one of the men was dying under his hands. Because they were in the fucking desert, fought a so utterly pointless war for a lot of strangers, in this incredible heat against people who die and slaughtering each other in the name of faith, their God or whatever else. In those moments, he doubted whether he had made the right choice, whether it would have been better to look after his studies for a quiet job in a hospital. And sometimes wishes became wings and it only needed two nice bullets, which had moved the fatherland idea in a very large distance. Almost the entire unit died in this last mission, and he could not help because some idiot thought, he had to shot the only doctor. When finally help arrived, they were just three men left from the former seventeen. And in this moment something was broken in him, let him lose every believing in the saying of fate. And he was glad that it was over. Really clear to him, however, was made this only yesterday. The thank-you note to Stamford was still pending. And the thought alone made him smile.

And even if the future was gloomy, dangerous and unpredictable in any way, at this moment -even with all these loose threads- felt John as if they were both going alone against the rest of the world. Come what may. And with this thought, he was on his way back, noon his way home.

After all this time, after the war, sand and death, after lonely evenings alone in a cheap hotel room with his weapon as the only society ... after all this ... he had finally arrived. In this new, crazy life with Sherlock Holmes.


	3. We´re brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title of this fanfic/chapter is the modification of a book title and gave me the idea with Mycroft. I really like the supporting characters...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music-reference: Massiv / "Wir sind, was wir sind Bruder"  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one from the lovely BBC, including the lyrics. Just the story idea!  
> And once again: This is a translation and I only use my own poorly language skills, a dictionary and google translate! No beta! ;)

* * *

 

**_In most cases we are_ **

**_only a moment away_ **

**_of our true happiness._ **

**_And sometimes reflected_ **

**_stardust in our light._ **

**_Sometimes sheer mist turns_ **

**_everything gray and dreary._ **

**_We walk barefoot_ **

**_over broken glass,_ **

**_no land in sight._ **

 

 

 

Only alone you were on the safe side.

Compassion made only vulnerable.

Love was just a chemical defect.

 

Yet he was still frozen in place on the plane, his eyes on the torn paper on the ground. It was like a de a vu ... asset back decades in the past. And it was his fault because he had been unable to prevent because his hands were tied to him... He should have seen it actually come ... know that Sherlock could not the matter at that. How could he be so blind? Once again.

And he felt every single time so damn helpless because even with all the power that brought his position within the government itself, it was not yet been possible for him to protect his brother from this suicidal mission. For a moment he doubted his work, because what's the point to prevent wars when the counterpartys literally still smashing their heads? What was the point if he was not even able to protect his own family? How could he not see that Sherlock turn back on the needle and... and was high as a kite when he ascended the plane?

And the list, a look at it would be probably enough to show that it would have been time for good. Basically, he had to be grateful to the person who had fed this message in the broadcasting network. It had literally saved his little brother's life.

But what had most hurt, those last words aboard the plane... he felt transported back to the disaster with Jim Moriarty and the helplessness that he felt but never added in life. He had Sherlock assumed not to learn from his mistakes, but he was in this respect no better. And his hope now was John Watson. Although this was probably deceptive, then there was still Mary ... and it was clear who John would choose when his brother really needed him. Family first, or not? A bitter expression went around his mouth as he gathered up the paper. Not the first document of this kind, which found it´s way between the sides of the red book, and probably not the last. With Sherlock, it was sometimes like walking barefoot over broken glass. Each piece that cut into the skin, was for his own inadequacy and let the world sink into the gray mist. Any hope of rescue seemed to have moved as far into the distant in such moments.

 

But perhaps everything would turn out for good.

The hope died last.

And with a last look back, he left the plane.

 


	4. Miami Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After TAB...written in one of the many sleepless Februar nights while listening to the Miami Vice Soundtrack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a translation and I´m really sorry, I have no beta, just my knowledge of this language, a dictionary and google. So if something sound weird... ;)

* * *

 

 

_You saw my pain, washed out in the rain_

_And broken glass, saw the blood run from my veins_

 

It was unbearably hot and fragmentary memories sought a hazy way to the surface. To a deadly cocktail of summer colors: dazzling white, flamingo pink, azure, Miami at the end of the 1990', the sound of crashing wawes, snow-white cocaine, freedom and the feeling of being able to remain forever awake. Nobody made rules or set limits, just day by day live in a never-ending state of intoxication. At that time it was paradise and probably the exact opposite of what his parents had in mind when they sent him to the States. But everything ended, especially if you have been blessed with such a penetrating brother who had unfortunately at sometime noticed in what circles he moved. But would´t have been Miami ... he had never met Martha Hudson, never her husband, the boss of a not quite small drug cartel. Had never led one to the other when she not asked for help and would have not remained somewhat guilty. Then he would never have come back to London, never ...

And despite everything Mycroft was always been there, even if he could´t forgive him some things. His big brother had never let him down and all of a sudden he felt guilty because of what he had said to him onboard the plane. But he was so embarrassed, did´t want that John found out why he really had read this first blog entry. And at some point in the evening all become too much ... it was as if the walls collapsed around him, as if the room would be flooded and he desperately struggled to keep his head on the surface.

The next memory was that he had spread the injecting equipment neatly beside him. And then ... nothing, except fading colors. Now he lay in his bed, still in the same things as the night before. Strange ... he was at last on the bedroom floor, high for a ... no ... the probably more than just one 7% solution. And suddenly the oppressive feeling that not enough oxygen found the way into his lungs and for the first time in his life he was really scared to die from something banal as a respiratory paralysis. That was not planned ... but maybe the cocaine plus the morphine was a little bit to much? Maybe...

Somewhere on the edge of his distorted perception he meant to see his brother, who was sitting on his bed and took his hand. For an eternity he just lay there and fought desperately for every breath, Mycroft's hand as the only lifeline.

And he fervently hoped that John would never know about this.

 

_But you saw no fault, no cracks in my heart_

_So give me hope in the darkness did I want to see the light_


	5. Dear, brother mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightfall in 221B...without a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing and nobody, just the idea!  
> A last look over the rooftops of London and during the return flight I wrote this, maybe the mood of farewell then. London is one of the few, rare cities where you have the feeling to come home. And I have no beta...only a dictionary and google translate. ;)

* * *

 

**_Call my demons and walk with me, my brother_ **

**_Until our roads lead us away from each other_ **

**_And if your heart's full of sorrow, keep walking_ **

**_Do not rest ..._ **

* * *

 

 

# Why of all things did you have to choose the one, that destroyed not only your body but also your genius mind? #

 

Mycroft's words still hung like an accusation in the air, had established themselves stubbornly in the room and buzzed louder as an angry swarm of bees. And he wanted to be out of this empty apartment, whose walls seemed to crush him literally. A short time later he was standing outside, the wind and the cold seeping through his clothes and he looked over the rooftops of London. The sunset lit the sky in all possible and impossible hues, blurred the edges, leaving only an idea of the last day back. But perhaps the cocaine which circulated in his bloodstream deceived him something. Perhaps he still dreamed? Maybe he lied even to himself because therein he was more than good.

He needed no-one, he can well manage alone. Friendships were overrated anyway. And he was not an addict...he needed the cocaine just sometimes ...to let the flood of thoughts in his head be a quiet background noise, trying to focus on other things, more important things. And with this tirade on statements he had ushered Mycroft out of 221B.

The time flew by and slowly the once beloved city was immersed in shapeless darkness, illuminated only by the lights of the myriad stars on the firmament. But today echoed her siren call unheard, the city held no challenge, no more distractions. It was as if someone had flipped a switch, as if at the same time with the sinking sun, somewhat extinguished in him.

And with trembling fingers, he wrote a few words on a piece of paper.

 

_Cocaine, 7% solution, IV, much more than usual._

_Mycroft,_

_I love you ... but please, let me sleep. I can not stand all this._

_Not without John._

_SH_

 

**_I will always be alive and by your side In your mind I'm free_ **


	6. A question of time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jules Verne´s wonderful quotation led to this here. And a little bit fun with Google translate ... that conjures up a "Dying Art" from the name Moriarty. Written back in February...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Only the idea is mine, I own nothing/no-one from he lovely BBC!  
> ...and like every time: I have no beta, only a dictionary and google translate for help. ;)

* * *

 

_"Put two ships in the open sea,_

_without wind or tide, and, at last,_

_they will come together._

_Throw two planets into space,_

_and theywill falling one on the other._

_Place two enemies in the midst of a crowd,_

_and they will Inevitably meet;_

_it is a fatality, a question of time, that is all. "_

_\- Jules Verne-_

 

 

Moriarty was back ...

No...

Not correct.

Moriarty shot himself in front of his eyes. 

So all over again to the beginning ... 

Someone who posed for the Consulting Criminal, had fed this video to the UK network to make it appear that, said CC stayed back among the living. What the quietly burgeoning suspicions confirmed, that #Moriarty# only a title was ... a synonymous .. a little pun. Maybe he should even be grateful, after all, this all had brought him back.

Back in his beloved city.

Back to life.

Back to John.

And that was in this moment all that mattered.


	7. Insomnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Full Moon ... I can´t sleep, and so I'm counting stars and write (fictional) stories. And I have no beta, only a dictionary and Google translate ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music-reference: Faithless / Insomnia  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing and nobody from the BBC, only the idea behind the story is mine!

* * *

 

 

_Deep in the bossom of the gentle night_

_Is when I search for the light_

_Pick up my pen and start to write_

_struggle, fight dark forces_

_in the clear moon light_

 

 

In full moon nights the concept of sleep was each time moved into the far distant. The moonlight brought too many memories. Memories of Afghanistan and an ambush, because in the glaring light of the endless desert there´s no way to find cover. Memories of too many deaths and two bullets that had nearly ended everything. Out there in the middle of dusty nothingness.

The light also carried memories of other things. Of things that have been. Of two endless years, a wedding, a child, lies, lies and more lies. And after that, in some of these nights, he sat with the gun on his bed, took her apart and put her back together, pushed a magazine inside and weighed the options for a small moment. Sat there until the first tentative rays of the sun make their way over the blazed horizon.

And whenever he came downstairs, no matter what crazy time, Sherlock seemed already to wait for him, suffered perhaps also from insomnia. And while he prepared tea, the beginnings of a faint melody floated through space. Sherlock was standing at the window, the moonlight blurred his contours and any dark thoughts dissolved inexorably in metaphorical smoke.


	8. Not for the damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TAB setting, the Greenhouse scene, only with another ending. A spectacular sunset in the end of Februar is to blame..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one from the BBC, only the idea behind the story and the few lines in the beginning are mine! And I have no beta for this translation...just me, a dictionary and google translate. :)

* * *

 

_No moon_  
_for the damned._  
_Souls in Purgatory,_  
_and yet there is hope._  
_(JD)_

 

The sun was setting as a melodramatic fireball on the horizon, the sky highlighted in all possible shades of red, reminiscent of glowing lava. Only gradually gave way to the color range of the blue hour, from dusty blue to an almost black-looking purple. And then...total darkness, minimally illuminated by the distant stars. No moon today. No, not for the damned. And by God, they were. Were it already at the very moment when the first words left John Watson's lips, in this dark greenhouse where it numbingly smelled like exotic flowers and damp earth. He was speechless for a moment, found no words in order to formulate a response. Had tried to play the whole thing down, does not pretend to take it seriously because these issues had him thrown off course and groundless floating in nothingness. And yet ... he had ultimately failed all along the line, lost in those blue eyes that sent his mind on a suicide mission. But even if he will burn in the metaphorical hell, so it would be the same, would not stop him or hold. And with one fluid motion, he closed the final distance between them in the dark.


	9. Broken Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I listen to the great song and this story is the result. I have no beta, just a dictionary and Google translate :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music-reference: Blackheart / Two Steps from Hell  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing / nobody from the BBC, only the idea is mine!

* * *

 

**_#We Are picture perfect in a broken frame#_ **

 

I lose myself.

It is as if everything stopped as if London even hold his breath. And thus create an absolute vacuum, as if the world had stopped turning. And for a moment it felt like my heart would stop beating before it started painfully again after a whole eternity.

And I bent myself, adjusted, adapted, just as the world had always wanted me. Play for weeks charade, to make the years undone when I was not near you. But everything comes to an end, disintegrates, falls apart. And I will break with.

I have always underestimated that a simple touch, a smile, a kind word, the patience to listen, a serious compliment or the smallest twinge of compassion has the power to turn a life around 180 degrees. I didn´t think that it would hurt to be alone again ... to be lonely. It has not been like this all these years, I could do whatever I wanted, needed or accountable to anyone paying attention. But then came you, John Watson, and my world turned on their axis. We circled like two planets in the gravitational field of the other, and no one could escape.

But everything in life has it´s price.

And for the mistakes you make, you pay at some point.

And the feeling of emptiness inside me was the best proof.


	10. Hold your hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Sherlock's view, sitting at Johns bed ... a "what if" if he had shot (the great game)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written back in 2011 as a short, alternate ending to "the great game" and even before I had seen "a scandal in belgravia". That was my first try in this fandom. And English is not my fist language and I have no beta. I will now post all my other one-shots inside the "Baker Street Diaries" :)

* * *

 

**_Alone I walk through the streets, through the rain, through the night._ **

**_Why did you leave me why did you do that ..._ **

 

 

How could I ever believe to be loved? In what absurd delusion did I just clung? No one has ever loved me, except maybe the pets of my youth. But the unconditional love of an animal is anyway not to be compared with the miserable, hypocritical, human subjects. An animal is always faithful, a human perhaps one winter. And then only because he's just lonely.

Some days I hated these wretched figures who crawled to my doorstep and almost begging about solving their so vital hiccups. At such moments I longed for someone of the caliber Moriarty -God rest his soul- and I deeply regretted that he no longer dwelt among us.

And yet I sit here and hold your hand ...- breathe in the absolute, overwhelming silence of the room. Only interrupted by the occasional utterances of the devices on which depends your life. With all these tubes you could almost open a shop, while the penetrating odor of disinfectant robs the mind. For a brief, desperate moment I think of having to stop the machines with a simple push of a button, to end it all, to redeem, to liberate. But this thought is so quickly dispelled as he came. And so I sit next to your bed and wait ... wait, that you open your eyes.

Hour after hour after hour ...


	11. Residual Risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written a long time ago, before I had seen TRF...a slightly other Version of the Events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> English is not my first language, and I fly solo (no beta). I apologise for all the mistakes.  
> And I own nothing and no-one, just the idea and the few lines at the end.

* * *

 

And here I was, on the edge of this roof and looked at the orange striped awning under me. For a moment, I let my mind wander ... towards recent days.

I had my enemies never felt as a burden, at least not in the conventional sense. They made my life difficult, but because of them, I had a job, a profession, a vocation. Without them, I would probably die of boredom or still hanging on the needle. And so I endured it with stoic composure and looked forward to catching another fly in my private little spider web. Even Moriarty was a source of eternal joy. Where the man his ideas took almost bordered on genius. But only almost, because crime could never be awesome.

And now? Now the blood of that very man flowing slowly over the ground. Had I not been so damn self-absorbed and selfish, I might see all this earlier to come, but now remained only plan B. Mycroft help me this time, the hearse was ready, the residual risk was factored studiously.

The there was one last thing to do...

I'd have to lie to John.

Not that it would have been something new, but I was not allowed to initiate him, had to let him believe that my life has been an illusion, only a fragile facade in everything he believed. And in all this, I did not even know if we would ever see each other again ...- and even with Mycroft's help I couldn´t just destroy Moriarty´s Network overnight.

But ... nothing ventured ...

And with a resolute gesture I chose Johns number, knowing that I would today perhaps hear his voice for the last time.

 

* * *

 

_A thousand fathoms deep the Hellmouth opens at my feet._

_Quiet anxiety affects my mind._

_What if I fall forever, if will come no end?_

_Will I end up like Prometheus?_

_An everlasting punishment for my sins?_

_And with no looking back I go the last step._

_(J.D)_


End file.
